The Day After
by true-elven
Summary: Just after Live Free or Die Hard. Matt is offered a job with the FBI, but his future is disrupted when Warlock reveals that Gabriel had inside help. Matt and McClane rush to stop the sale of national secrets while Matt falls hard for Lucy.
1. Chapter 1

A dull pain below his knee and an insistent _beep-beep-beep _pulled Matt from a restless afternoon nap. Opening his eyes, he squinted for a moment into the bright overhead fluorescent light before turning – carefully, to avoid jarring his injured leg – onto his side to glare at the IV pump, which was empty. And beeping. Again.

Sighing, he punched the call button on his bedside remote and glanced at the clock on the far wall. Four-thirty. He had been in the hospital now for roughly thirty-two hours, and while it was definitely an improvement over being threatened, punched, and shot, he had to admit it was also more than a little boring.

It didn't help matters that he hadn't yet been allowed access to a computer. Thirty-two hours and counting since he had been online, when it was, after all, in large part thanks to him, Matt Farrell, that "online" even still existed. Apparently whatever "word" McClane had promised to put in for him with the FBI's cyberterrorism division had not persuaded them that Matt's role in Thomas Gabriel's firesale was absolutely, incontrovertibly innocent, or else he would have been permitted a computer.

_Beep-beep-beep. _Matt glared at the IV pump and considered shutting it off. He didn't really need the morphine anymore. The doctors said the bullet had exited cleanly through his calf muscle without much damage to the bone; apparently, the sideways-downward angle of Gabriel's bullet had spared Matt's kneecap, although Matt was sure that had been entirely unintentional on Gabriel's part. In fact, once he finished his next round of IV antibiotics to prevent infection, Matt was planning to go home.

Perhaps a bit of a problem, considering "home" had been blown to bits, but hey.

The door to his hospital room creaked open. Expecting the nurse, Matt immediately launched into a litany of complaints: "Listen, this IV thing is out again, and it's really like ridiculously cold in here, and is there any way I could get something besides pudding – "

"You're not a fan of hospital pudding?" The pretty, slender girl with long, reddish-brown hair placed a hand on her hip and grinned mischievously at Matt from the doorway. "And here I had you figured for a Jell-O kind of guy."

"Lucy." Matt's mouth had gone inexplicably dry. He pushed himself up straighter in the bed and used the remote to raise the head so he was in a sitting position. As she came into the room, looking impossibly pretty in a yellow strapless sundress, he self-consciously tugged the blankets up higher around his waist; the thin pajama bottoms the hospital had provided didn't leave much to the imagination.

With her typical self-assurance, Lucy came right over and perched on the edge of Matt's bed, settling easily in consideration of his injured leg. "Dad said you're going to be okay?"

"Uh, yeah." Hearing McClane referred to as "dad" sounded odd to Matt's ears. "Sir" or "detective" or "hard ass" were so much more fitting. "Yeah, the doctors said it wasn't bad, for a gunshot wound. I just have to stay off my leg for like two weeks and then see some kind of therapist. For my leg," he added quickly, lest Lucy think he was some kind of weakling who needed psychiatric help over their ordeal.

Not that he wasn't going to seek out some serious counseling. He would probably require massive amounts of Prozac to ever function normally again in society. But Lucy didn't need to know that.

"That's good. I'm glad." Lucy lifted her hair to one side, proudly displaying a round bruise on her cheekbone. "That's my big war wound. Not as glamorous as a gunshot wound, huh?"

Remembering those awful minutes when one of Gabriel's henchman had pressed a gun to Lucy's head, Matt barely suppressed a shudder. "I think your dad got the worst of it," he said, aiming for glib and falling a little short.

"Yeah, well, it's not the first time. You should hear some of the stories my mom tells. It's like Vietnam with my dad as the whole army."

They grinned at one another. Matt looked away first, feeling shy under her gaze. He didn't spend a lot of time around girls – okay, he didn't spend any time around girls, unless they happened to be hackers, and then they were generally so much tougher than he was that he didn't think of them as "girls." He certainly hadn't been the object of attention for a girl as beautiful and confident and charming as Lucy Gennero-McClane, and it made him feel like a tongue-tied sophomore.

_Say something cool! She came to visit you. She thinks you're a hero. Be witty!_

A rather awkward silence descended. Matt cast around desperately for something, anything, to say, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the IV pump beeped again.

"Do I need to get a nurse?" Lucy frowned in concern at the tube snaking into Matt's arm.

"No. I mean, I called them already. They're kind of slow." Matt reached over and flicked the pump off, thankful Lucy didn't seem to have noticed how jumpy he was. "So, are you, uh, still here in the hospital?"

Lucy shook her head. "They didn't even admit me. I came to see Dad. And then I wanted to come say thank you, to you, for saving my life."

Matt felt himself blush fiercely. Dropping his chin, he studied the weaved pattern on his blankets as if it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. "It was no big deal. Anybody would've done – "

"Matt?"

"Yeah?" He looked up expectantly and was startled to find Lucy staring rather pointedly – and, he had to admit, suggestively – at his mouth.

"I haven't thanked you yet."

"Oh." He wasn't sure if his blush had deepened or his blood pressure had suddenly dropped, but Matt felt a strange tingling sensation in the top his head as Lucy shifted toward him. He couldn't believe this: The most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in real life was actually going to kiss him, really kiss him from the look in her eyes…

He didn't have much time to ponder the situation, however, before her lips settled ever so softly against his. Her nose brushed his cheek; her skin was soft, smelling faintly of coconuts – maybe suntan lotion? or baby oil? – and her lips warm, full, gentle. It took him a moment to recover from the shock to return the kiss, his own lips hesitant, unsure of whether she intended this to be a real Kiss or a thank-you kiss, maybe even a pity kiss because he was so obviously a nerd who didn't have a chance with a girl like her. But at the slightest invitation, Lucy pressed harder, dispelling all Matt's doubts about what she intended.

Head spinning, Matt slipped his hands into Lucy's baby-soft hair, tugging her closer. Her palms splayed across the front of his chest; he knew she could feel his heart hammering, only he found it difficult to care with the sweet scent and taste of her filling his senses. He felt like he was drowning in her, and it was a wonderful, intoxicating sensation, a euphoria even beyond surviving the near-death experiences of the past two days.

"Mr. Farrell."

Matt and Lucy jumped guiltily apart. For one awful moment, Matt thought he was going to find John McClane standing at the foot of his bed with a gun pointed at his head. Then he remembered that McClane was on the same floor, in a different hospital bed, recovering from his own wounds. Instead, a bemused male nurse stood grinning at the couple, a new IV bag in hand.

"Sorry to interrupt," the nurse continued, looking anything but. Lucy smiled at Matt and rested her forehead against his cheek while the nurse deftly changed the IV. "This is the last round of antibiotics. Then we'll be getting your discharge paperwork together. Mmkay?"

Wishing he could wipe the smart-ass grin off the nurse's face, Matt responded with a curt, "Great. And great timing too, asshole," he muttered as the door closed behind the man.

Lucy laughed. Matt found himself strangely unable to look her directly in the eye; she didn't seem to notice. Settling back into her original position on the edge of the bed, she asked, "Where're you going to go when they discharge you?"

"Um, well, the way some of those FBI guys were acting, I think federal prison isn't out of the question."

"No way." Lucy shook her head vehemently. "Dad says they know you didn't have anything to do with Gabriel's plan. You were tricked, just like everyone else."

Matt didn't say anything. In the strictest sense, what Lucy said was true: He hadn't known he was working for terrorists, certainly not on a plot as big as what Gabriel had in mind, and he would have refused if he had known the truth. Still, in a larger sense, Matt had suspected what he was being asked to do wasn't entirely legal. Something about the code he had been asked to write had unsettled him; although the facts of what his supposed employer told him had been true, the deal had felt wrong. He hadn't even been that surprised when McClane showed up at his door that first night – Christ, had it really been less than four days ago? – because he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

"Matt? You never answered my question." Lucy was regarding him curiously. "Dad said they blew up your apartment. Do you have family coming or something?"

Family. Matt forced his most nonchalant expression. "Oh, my parents died a really long time ago, so, it's pretty much just me."

"That's…horrible." Lucy tucked her hair behind her ear. She looked so pretty Matt felt light-headed again. "I'm so sorry." She hesitated. "What about friends? Or your girlfriend?"

"Well, I feel like a big loser admitting this to you, but pretty much everybody I could call my 'friends' I know by screennames. I wouldn't recognize them if they walked through that door. So I doubt any of them are going to offer up their couches. And I don't have a girlfriend," he added, returning her smile. "It's no big deal. I'll go to a hotel or something. Hey, maybe the FBI will put me up in a safe house."

Lucy shook her head. "No way. No hotels, and no safe houses. You'll come stay with us."

"Us?" Matt's mouth had gone dry again. "As in like 'you' us, or your grandparents us, or…?"

"My mom. And me," Lucy explained. She was suddenly no-nonsense, the take-no-prisoners, don't-except-no-for-an-answer Lucy he had first encountered at Woodlawn. "Dad's being released tomorrow or the next day, and Mom says he has to come stay with us for a while until he recovers, and she said you should come, too, if you didn't have other plans."

Stay with John McClane and family. And Lucy. Matt had a brief, hilarious vision of himself and McClane playing checkers and sipping iced tea on the back porch of a big suburban home, his leg swaddled in bandages and McClane's arm in a sling. Somehow, he couldn't quite picture McClane as an invalid, even for a few days' time.

"How does your dad feel about this?" he asked.

Already moving to the closet where Matt's clothes – neatly laundered by the hospital staff – were folded, Lucy said over her shoulder, "Fine. He really likes you, you know."

_You tell me, kid. You're the criminal. _Matt winced at the remembrance of McClane's words, which weren't that far from the truth. He had been a criminal, at one time. Not a dangerous one; a stupid one. A stupid, bored eighteen-year-old with nobody to correct him (an endless string of ever-changing foster parents did not constitute a corrective force in Matt's experience) and way too much intelligence and computational aptitude. He had fallen into the hacker lifestyle with the same ease some kids turned to drugs or guns or gangs. A particularly splendid hack on a nationwide bank's online customer bill-pay system had earned him two years' probation, got him tossed out of state college, and landed him on the FBI's cyberterrorist list. Six years had made a lot of difference in his life: Matt's freelance computer work was lucrative but legal, yet somehow, he couldn't escape the nagging fear that underneath it all, he remained a criminal who simply didn't need to commit crimes at the moment.

"So you'll be ready to go in, what, a couple of hours?" Lucy had stowed Matt's clothes inside his battered black messenger bag – the one that had held his computer, before the FBI seized it as evidence. Matt doubted he would ever see that piece of hardware again; they would probably burn it, along with every other scrap of evidence connecting the government to Thomas Gabriel. "I'll come back and pick you up. It'll be great."

Matt couldn't help feeling overwhelmed. He had lived the majority of his life alone or at least fending for himself; now here was a gorgeous girl with a father he would have proudly called his own (and he could imagine how McClane would _loooove _that) offering him a place of warmth and comfort in what he could only imagine was her amazing life. He ran his hands through his hair, stalling. "You're sure this is okay with your dad?"

"You look really sexy when you do that."

Matt blushed instantly. "Sexy" was not how he was used to being described. "Really? Well, these are pretty stylish PJs," he joked, plucking the paper-thin white tee-shirt away from his chest. "And then there's the whole body-odor issue. All I've had is like a sponge bath in three days. I'm sure I smell wonderful."

Dropping his bag in a chair, Lucy crossed the room, leaned over, and kissed him so firmly on the mouth Matt lost his breath. Before he could respond, she pulled away and said softly, "I don't care what you're wearing or how badly you need a shower. You're my hero. Got it?"

He managed to nod mutely.

"Good." Lucy turned on her heel and snatched up his bag again. "And yes, it is perfectly okay with Daddy for you to stay with us, but if you don't believe me, he's in Room 221, just across the hall. Go ask him."

"Okay. I believe you," Matt conceded, although he wasn't entirely sure he did. It seemed within Lucy's character for her to insist that he stay with them, and in McClane's for him not to be able to say no to his daughter. "But, uh, maybe we shouldn't spring this whole I'm your hero thing on him right now. Or the kissing thing."

"Don't worry. I'm pretty sure he already knows."

"You are? He does?" Matt suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable. Where was he supposed to go if McClane came charging into the room with guns blazing? The guy had taken out a helicopter with a car, for fuck's sake – what was a scrawny kid with a crush on his daughter compared to that?

From the doorway, Lucy blew him a kiss. "See you soon. It's going to be great."

Just over four hours later, as the sun was sinking in a blazing July sky, Lucy helped Matt out of the car in front of her mother's house. Matt had to admit he was impressed by the Gennero homestead: Whatever Holly did, it had to pay better than being a New York cop, because she lived in a gorgeous three-storey, white-columned home inside a gated community.

An attractive red-haired woman he took to be Holly hurried out the front door to meet them. The doctors had provided Matt with a cane; he was supposed to put as little weight on his injured leg as possible, and to walk only so much as it took to get from the bed to the bathroom and back. Mounting the four steps to the Genneros' front door seemed like an insurmountable challenge, although Matt refused to complain in front of Lucy and lose his new-found hero status, but without waiting for him to ask Holly seized his arm in a surprisingly firm grip and steered him up the steps.

"Guess you're used to guys coming home shot up," Matt commented.

Holly grinned. "You have no idea." To Lucy, she instructed, "Put his things in the guest room downstairs and get us some iced tea, sweetheart."

By the time Matt collapsed into a chair in the Genneros' well-appointed living room, he was exhausted. Lucy brought them all tall glasses of iced tea on a wooden tray; Matt was almost surprised that Holly didn't employ a maid, until he remembered that she had been married to McClane, who certainly wasn't the servant-employing type.

"So Matt," Holly, seated beside Lucy on the couch across from him, began, "Lucy tells me I have you to thank for saving her life. And John's."

Matt blushed again. He studied the thick-pile blue carpet intently. "Yeah, well, it was, you know, I just reacted. Like I'd never fired a gun before. Your hus- I mean, McClane did most of the saving."

"He tends to do that."

"And Lucy was pretty terrific herself," Matt added quickly, anxious to turn the subject away from his perceived heroics. The truth was, when he had grabbed that gun, he hadn't even been certain he could bring himself to pull the trigger. A sudden surge of adrenaline – the fear that if he didn't, Lucy and McClane would both be dead because of his cowardice – had given him the feeling of an out-of-body experience; he wasn't entirely clear on the details of how the gun had gotten into his hand, or how he had known to aim for the exposed parts of his enemy, or how he had managed not to shoot anybody else as he squeezed off what seemed like a dozen rounds. Not exactly hero stuff, in Matt's opinion.

Holly patted her daughter's leg affectionately. "Both of my children inherited their father's penchant for survival. That's very comforting."

Lucy rolled her eyes at Matt. "Mom's so modest. Do you know she survived two terrorist plots – one in this big sky-scraper, and one on an airplane?"

"Wow." Matt was duly impressed. "So this is like a family tradition, huh? Getting captured and shot at?"

"Well, life with John is nothing if not exciting," Holly remarked, with such obvious affection for her ex-husband that Matt wasn't sure how to respond. In his experience, divorced couples did not speak of one another lovingly – or offer to take care of one another after injuries, for that matter. He had a sneaking suspicion Holly and McClane's relationship was a lot more complicated than a divorce judgment would imply.

The telephone rang, and Holly moved off to the kitchen to answer it. Lucy came over and perched on the edge of Matt's chair, looking down at him with tender concern. "You look so tired," she observed, placing her hand over his. "Do you want to go lie down?"

_More than anything. Show me the bed._

Not wanting to seem rude (or worse, weak), Matt shrugged. "In a minute, maybe." He glanced toward the kitchen where Holly had disappeared and could be heard talking quietly. "Your mom seems really cool."

"She is. She's an executive with an ad agency, and she makes an obscene amount of money." Lucy pointed to a series of glass and gilded plagues lining the far wall. "She's won all of these awards for creativity and management and stuff. I think it was when she started getting so successful that she and Dad really got into trouble."

Matt hated to pry, but curiosity got the better of him. "Have they been divorced long?"

"Yeah, since I was a kid. We – I mean, me and Mom and my brother – lived in LA for a long time, then we moved back here to New York when I was in high school. I didn't see Dad a lot growing up, actually. We talked on the phone a lot."

Carefully, not wanting to offend or bring up painful subjects, Matt pressed, "It seems like they get along okay."

"Oh, they're still crazy about one another." Lucy said this as if it were the most natural thing in the world for divorced parents to still have feelings for each other. "Mom said she just couldn't take not knowing if Dad was going to come home or not – he's always been like this, like he is now, always the guy who 'gets involved.' And Dad was so uncomfortable around Mom's executive friends. They used to fight about him going with her to parties and all that. So they decided to get divorced. But they love one another, you can tell."

"So did your mom give you her last name after the divorce?"

Lucy blushed. "No, my name has always been McClane. I was mad at my dad for a long time. You know, like until a couple of days ago?" Matt smiled with her. "I don't know. It's complicated. Dad is so…Dad, and he doesn't always respect my privacy, and I really missed him while we were in LA but he always seemed too involved with other people to come see us – "

Lucy stopped abruptly as Holly entered the room, smiling. "That was Jack," she announced. "I told him you and your father are fine. He's going to call the hospital to talk to John."

"Jack's my brother," Lucy explained to Matt. She nodded toward a series of family photos lined up on a beautiful oak cabinet across the room. Several showed a handsome young man with a strong resemblance to McClane wearing a Marine uniform and looking incredibly tough. "He joined up right out of high school. Dad threw a fit, but it's what Jack wanted, so they got over it. He's overseas now, in Afghanistan."

Matt couldn't help feeling inadequate next to the all-American hero that appeared to be Jack McClane. No wonder McClane had blanched at the idea of Matt having a crush on Lucy. The guy's son was a veritable GI Joe, and what was Matt? Some scrawny, wheezy little computer nerd who whined a lot. With a criminal record to boot.

_And why does it bother me so much what McClane thinks of me? He's not my dad._

"Lucy, I think you should show Matt into his room and help him get settled," Holly was saying. "I've got this press party tonight I can't miss, but you kids'll be safe here. The alarm is set and John always makes sure the police do extra patrols," Holly remarked to Matt, who could well imagine the security measures McClane took for his ex-wife's house. "If you need anything, call me on my cell, okay, Luce?"

"You got it, Mom. Have fun." Lucy kissed her mom's cheek.

Holly helped Matt to his feet, discreetly steadying him when he swayed a bit from a wave of pain shooting through his injured leg. She hugged him quickly, whispering into his ear as she did so, "Stop being a tough guy and rest. Got it?"

Matt nodded. He couldn't help liking Holly: She was pretty and confident and no-nonsense, a lot like her daughter, but also really loving underneath, he could tell. He found himself basking in the glow of her maternal concern much the way he had basked in McClane's assertion that he was "that guy."

Fortunately, the downstairs guest room was not far from the living room, although it proved to be less of a "room" and more of a small apartment with an enormous bed, a television, a walk-in closet, a mini-fridge, and a huge bathroom with a Jacuzzi. Matt slowly hobbled his way inside and gratefully sank onto the soft mattress. He couldn't believe how tired he was, like he'd been out running a marathon instead of sitting on his butt for two days.

"You should take some pain medicine," Lucy instructed, opening the prescription of Demerol the doctor had sent home with them. She put two pills in Matt's hand and his iced tea on the bedside table. "Oh, Mom and I got you some new clothes," she went on, walking over and opening the closet. "Nothing big, just some jeans and stuff, since your apartment got trashed."

Matt swallowed the pills and leaned back on the fluffy pillows. "You guys didn't have to do that. I'll pay you back."

"Mom can afford it. And don't worry, I let her buy the embarrassing stuff like your underwear."

Matt laughed. "Good to know. I hope she figured me for a boxer guy."

Lucy opened the top dresser drawer and produced a pair of soft-looking black cotton pants and a plain white tee-shirt. "Pajamas," she explained, crossing to the bed, where Matt could already feel himself starting to drift. Apparently, Demerol was as wonderful as morphine at killing pain – and conscious thought. "Not as sexy as the hospital PJs, but they'll do."

"I'm so tired," he confessed. Each word seemed to take a long time to pronounce. "I think I'll just…sleep…in my clothes."

"I'll help you change." Without waiting for him to protest (which he wasn't sure he would have), Lucy pushed Matt's short-sleeved button-down off his shoulders, then seized the bottom of his long-sleeved tee-shirt and tugged. "Just lift your arms, okay?"

"Mmkay." Sleepily, Matt lifted his arms – which felt like lead weights – over his head. They dropped back to the bed as soon as the shirt was free.

"Oh, your arm," Lucy murmured, lifting his left wrist and inspecting the bruised site where his IV had been. "That looks sore."

Matt shrugged. "Not really feeling it at the moment."

"Light weight," Lucy teased good-naturedly. She skated her fingertips across his stomach; Matt felt himself wake up considerably. "You know," her voice took on a husky note that penetrated sharply through his medicinal stupor, "if I was a different kind of girl, I could take advantage of you in your weakened state."

"Boy, that would suck," he rejoined sarcastically, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt with her fingers working at the button and zipper of his jeans.

Lucy giggled. "Relax, your virtue is safe with me." She slid the jeans over his hips and off his feet. Matt noted that she looked a little embarrassed herself; he was glad he wasn't alone in feeling awkward at being undressed by a beautiful girl he hardly knew. She hastily helped him into the cotton pants, carefully sliding them over the bandages on his leg.

"Now the shirt," she instructed, and pulled the tee-shirt down over his head. "Okay, all done."

"Thank you. You're an angel." Matt's voice was slurring, but he fought sleep. He didn't want Lucy to go; having her so near, her hands resting lightly on his chest, was too nice. With narcotics coursing through his system, he found the courage to say, "God you're pretty."

Now it was Lucy's turn to blush deeply. She looked even prettier when she did.

"That's what I thought when I saw you," he went on, struggling to keep his speech clear. "I thought, 'She's too pretty to be real.'"

"I think you're doped up." Lucy nuzzled Matt's neck with her nose. His breath caught. "But that's really sweet," she said against his throat.

Matt shivered. "What, uh, what did you think? When you saw me?" It had to be the Demerol, he decided, because he would never have had the guts to ask such a question otherwise.

Tracing the line of his jaw with her nose, Lucy answered slowly, "I thought…I thought, 'I hope they don't kill him. He's cute.'" She giggled; Matt couldn't help laughing as well. "Oh, and, 'I hope he's got a gun.'"

"Sorry to disappoint," Matt managed, as Lucy began dropping soft kisses down the side of his neck. He could feel nerve endings coming to life underneath her lips, despite the medicinal haze rolling in over his brain.

"You came through in the end," she said against his cheek. Her mouth descended lightly onto his. Matt kissed her back with all of the strength he could muster in his current state, but even as he did so, he knew he was fading fast. Lucy seemed to sense this, because after a long, tender moment, she pulled away.

"Sleep, baby." She brushed the hair from Matt's forehead. "You need to sleep."

No longer able to keep his eyes open, Matt nodded. He caught her hand and tugged her down toward him, nestling her head into his shoulder as she stretched out on the bed alongside him. "You too," he said sleepily. "You should sleep."

"Okay." Lucy snuggled closer. "I'll stay right here."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Matt felt surprisingly better after a night's sound sleep, uninterrupted by nurses checking his vital signs or IV pumps beeping. Waking up to a beautiful girl in his arms didn't dampen his mood any, either.

Since Holly's guest bathroom was equipped with an extendable showerhead, he was actually able to take a real shower without getting his bandages wet. Afterwards, Lucy changed his bandage and checked his stitches; everything seemed to be healing fine. She also fixed him a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits and honey, and fresh coffee. He had to admit, being nursed back to health by a doting girlfriend (he was already thinking of her that way, and wondering if he should) definitely had its perks.

Lucy wasn't exactly what he had expected her to be, though. For one thing, Matt was surprised to learn that she was a video game junkie. After breakfast, she brought down Jack's PlayStation 2 and hooked it up in the guest room; they played Halo for two hours, and Lucy was as good as any boy Matt had ever played.

When Holly came home for lunch, she ordered Matt to eat and take a nap. He didn't argue much; even though he was feeling better, he still wasn't anywhere near up to par. Lucy gave him a Tylenol – he was determined to get off the narcotics as quickly as possible – and closed the blinds so he could rest.

A few hours later, Matt woke with a start from a disturbing dream in which he and Lucy were running down a long, dark corridor strewn with dead bodies, being chased by a car whose headlights seemed to blind them without actually illuminating the passage. It took a moment after he opened his eyes for Matt to realize he was safe in bed, not really being pursued by maniacs. With a sigh of relief, he rolled over – to find John McClane sitting calmly in a chair by his bedside.

"Hey kid," McClane greeted him, in his gruff but not unfriendly way. He nodded toward Matt's injured leg. "How's that scrape on your knee?"

Matt couldn't help but laugh, embarrassed that he had complained about a scraped knee moments after McClane had nearly killed himself jumping out of a moving vehicle. "Yeah, it's healing up okay," he replied. "How about you? How's the self-inflicted gunshot wound?"

McClane shrugged. Beneath his shirt bandages protruded, but his arm was no longer in a sling. Matt felt certain the doctors had ordered McClane to keep his arm immobilized and just as certain that the moment he left the hospital, the sling hit the nearest trashcan. "I think I'll survive," McClane answered. "Listen, Bowman's here. He wants to talk to you. Think you're up to it?"

Matt's stomach dropped to the vicinity of his toes. The deputy director of the FBI's cyberterrorism division was here to see him – that was hardly good news. He'd suspected the feds would be less than understanding about his involvement with Gabriel's plan; once a hacker, always a hacker, that seemed to be their motto. So did he feel up to facing federal charges? No, but he probably never would, so he figured he might as well get it over with.

Matt said nothing about his suspicions to McClane, however. The detective couldn't help him; he had no sway over the FBI. Matt decided it would be better to take his punishment like a man. At least McClane would respect that.

_Maybe he'll let Lucy visit me in prison. Yeah, right…_

With the aid of his cane, Matt hobbled alongside McClane through the living room toward what McClane described as Holly's "home office." He couldn't stop himself from asking, "Where's Lucy?"

McClane regarded him coolly, obviously less than thrilled by Matt's interest in his daughter. As they crossed the living room Matt caught a glimpse of Jack's Marine portrait and was overwhelmed by another wave of bitter shame at his inadequacy. Who was he kidding to think a man like McClane – a real patriot, a real hero – would ever be satisfied with anybody less than GI Joe for his daughter?

"She went with her mother to the store," McClane answered as he opened the door to a very modern, sophisticated-looking study. "They'll be back soon."

_In time to see me off in handcuffs, d'ya think?_

Bowman, looking cool and collected in a dark suit, stood up to shake hands with Matt as they entered the room. Matt was more than a little surprised by the gesture: In his experience, cops did not shake hands with criminals.

"Mr. Farrell, glad to see you up and around," Bowman said warmly, ushering Matt into a high-backed chair. He and McClane settled into matching chairs facing Matt's, so that the three of them formed a small semi-circle in the large, airy room. "McClane tells me the doctors are confident you'll make a full recovery."

"Well, I think my Olympic hurdling career is over, but otherwise I should be okay." Matt wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and willed Bowman to cut the small talk. He wanted to hear the charges against him already, get it over with.

"Listen, Matt – can I call you Matt?" Bowman smiled when Matt nodded. "Okay, Matt, here's the thing. I'd like to offer you a position with us."

Matt couldn't have been more surprised if McClane had suddenly stood up, hugged him, and declared him his adopted son. He was too shocked to speak. Bowman, seeming to take his silence as an invitation to explain, went on, "The President has ordered us to form a task force to investigate how Gabriel was able to plan such an extensive attack without our knowing anything about it. He also wants us to look at the technological infrastructure of the country, to see how we can prevent anything like this from happening in the future.

"We're going to need the best people on this team, Matt, and McClane here tells me that you stayed one step ahead of these assholes the entire time he was with you. That's pretty impressive, because I've got to tell you, Gabriel had us chasing our tails."

Bowman paused, as if waiting for Matt to comment, but the shock had not worn off enough yet for Matt to say anything. Bowman pressed on, "Unfortunately, because of your criminal background, I can't offer you an actual position with the FBI. However, I've spoken to the President about you, and he agrees that we need you involved. So we're prepared to offer you a position as a consultant, which I've got to tell you is a much better-paying job than being an FBI analyst anyway, if you'll sign some confidentiality agreements and legal waivers and things like that."

McClane was looking a little concerned. "You okay, kid?"

At last, Matt found his voice. "Yeah, uh, I'm – Wait." He turned to Bowman, his mind reeling. "I thought you were here to arrest me, and you're offering me a job?"

"Arrest you? For what?" Bowman didn't wait for an answer. "Look, Matt, I've personally reviewed all of the evidence so far in this case. We know how Gabriel and his conspirators contacted you and the other programmers; we know what they asked you to do. There was absolutely nothing illegal about the code you wrote. This thing blind-sided all of us. If the United States government, the cyberterrorism division of the FBI, had no idea what these people were up to, how were you supposed to figure it out?"

"That's how Bowman presented it to the Justice Department," McClane put in. "They all agreed: This wasn't your fault, kid."

_You've got nothing to be sorry about. _Matt felt a little more sure of himself remembering how McClane had absolved him of guilt after Gabriel kidnapped Lucy. Maybe McClane didn't see him as a career criminal, after all.

All that aside, however, he was being offered a job with the FBI. That meant, essentially, the government. Did he really want to work for (or with) the government? The masters of disinformation? The system he had spent most of his adolescent and young adult life accusing of being evil and manipulative?

Matt felt unmoored. Everything was happening too fast, changing too fast. Less than a week ago, his main concern had been out-bidding other Star Wars fans for first-edition figurines on E-bay. Now, he was being asked to help out in a matter of national security – in front of a man he very much hoped would someday be his father-in-law, at the same time that he knew it was way, way too soon to be considering such a long-term relationship with Lucy. All of that, combined with being shot at and nearly blown up and actually shot and threatened with torture and death, was enough to make Matt wish he could curl up in a dark room for hours and just sleep without thinking.

Feeling light-headed, he turned to McClane. "What do you think?"

McClane hesitated. He looked decidedly uncomfortable being referred to for advice. "Look, kid, I can't tell you what to do," he began. Matt knew his face fell, because McClane hurried on, "But I can tell you this: If some shit like the shit that just went down ever happens again, you're the guy I'm calling. I think you could help make sure I'd never need to, 'cause you know how these guys think, how to stop them before they start."

_You tell me, kid. You're the criminal. _"These guys," Matt echoed, amazed by how hurt his feelings were. "You mean, guys like Gabriel. Hackers. Criminals."

"You wouldn't be the first teenager to make a bad decision, you know," Bowman put in. "And yes, we do value your input because you have been on the same side as 'these guys.' But that doesn't mean we think you're a criminal. The FBI isn't in the habit of offering jobs to criminals."

"Really? Because I thought Gabriel worked for you guys."

"Hey." McClane spoke quietly, yet firmly. "Bowman, you mind to give us a minute?"

The deputy director stood. "Sure. I'll, uh, I'll be outside." He gestured toward the backyard, which they could see from the study's large windows, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Matt suspected he was about to get a John McClane lecture, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. To his surprise, however, McClane asked, "Do you want to do this thing or not, kid?"

"I don't know." It was the most honest answer Matt could give, although he hated how weak it sounded. "I want to help, I don't mean that. It's just…Like I said, I'm not like you. I don't know if I can be involved in stuff like this all the time."

McClane flashed a sardonic grin. "Kid, I've never been a federal agent, but I've got to tell you, I think days like the one we just had are pretty rare, even for the FBI."

In spite of himself, Matt grinned back. "Fair. But it does mean knowing stuff. Stuff I'm not sure I want to know. Like don't you ever wish you weren't a cop, just so you didn't have to know what's really out there, what people are really capable of?"

"All the time, kid. All the time."

Matt sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He still felt conflicted, but not desperately so. "But you still do it," he mused out loud. "And that's what makes you that guy."

"Kid?" Matt looked up at McClane, who was studying him very intently. "Whether you do this or not, you're still that guy."

To his horror, Matt found himself fighting back tears. He absolutely refused to cry in front of John McClane; he would rather have been shot again. Clearing his throat, he said the first thing that came to his mind: "All right. I'll do it."

"You sure?"

It came as quite a shock to Matt that he actually was sure. Now that the decision had been made, however impulsively, he knew deep down it was the right one. "Yeah," he said firmly, nodding. "I'm sure."

"There are easier ways to impress my dad, you know. You didn't have to join the FBI."

Stuffed from a delicious meal prepared, with much laughing and joking, by Holly and Lucy, Matt reclined on the guest room bed and tried to be irritated that Lucy was haranguing him for his career choice. He couldn't quite manage it, though: The more interested she was in his decisions, the more he became convinced that she had long-term aspirations for them, too. Who said love at first sight was a myth?

"I didn't do it to impress your dad." Seeing Lucy's skeptical arched eyebrow, Matt conceded, "Okay, I didn't do it entirely to impress your dad. It's a good thing to do, right? Help people? Stop some crazy jerk-off like Thomas Gabriel from getting control of our country again, maybe on a day when your dad's not around to stop them?"

Lucy flounced onto the bed, pouting. Or pretending to pout. Either way, it was damn sexy.

"So you're moving to D.C. or something, I suppose." She picked at a corner of the bedspread, but Matt could see her watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, maybe," Matt said noncommittally. The truth was, Bowman had reassured him the task force would meet only occasionally in D.C. For the most part, Matt – who loved New York more than any other city on the planet and would never have left, for anything – could work out of the FBI cyberterrorism field office in Manhattan. "But I mean, you're going back to school soon, right? And you've probably got classes and boyfriends and all kinds of stuff to take up your time."

"First of all, 'back to school' is like ten miles away," Lucy shot back. "And secondly, no I do not have a boyfriend, and third, I thought you liked me."

Matt couldn't hold back a grin any longer. "I do like you, Lucy. I like you very much. And since I'll be working out of the New York field office most of the time, you're not getting rid of me that easy."

"You creep!" Lucy grabbed a pillow and playfully smacked Matt with it.

"Hey," he protested, throwing up his hands to ward off the mock blows. "I'm injured here! Be careful."

"I'll show you 'injured.'" Lucy crawled toward him, fist raised warningly, but when she reached him, she pulled him down into a long, slow kiss. Matt's head began spinning again; he caught her around the waist and pulled her closer, wondering how much pain he could endure in his leg if Lucy wanted to go farther –

"Lucy McClane."

Matt nearly passed out from fear when John McClane's voice boomed out from the doorway. Lucy, however, calmly turned around, positioning herself so that she was nearly sitting in Matt's lap. Unable to look McClane in the eye, Matt focused instead on a spot on the carpet near McClane's right shoe.

"Yes?" Lucy said innocently.

"Give us a minute, would ya?" McClane came farther into the room. Matt still kept his gaze on the ground, hoping perhaps if he seemed submissive, McClane might show some mercy.

"Dad," Lucy began.

"It's okay, honey. Just give us a minute." McClane smiled encouragingly at his daughter, who rather reluctantly planted a kiss on Matt's cheek before scooting off the bed and out the door.

Once she was gone, McClane seated himself in the chair by Matt's bed, and Matt could no longer avoid looking at the older man. To his surprise (and relief), McClane didn't look furious. He didn't look exactly thrilled, but he didn't look furious.

"Listen," Matt started. He thought maybe if he could explain to McClane that his intentions were honorable, he might be okay with the budding romance.

"No, you listen." McClane's voice was steely enough to instantly silence Matt. "Lucy is my daughter. My baby girl. I've loved her from the moment she was born, before she ever even took her first breath. You understand that?"

Mutely, Matt nodded.

"Good. Now, Holly tells me that I've been a little over-protective of Lucy in the past, and that's caused some problems between us. Lucy and me, I mean. So I'm trying not to overstep my bounds or whatever the therapists call it today. But I want you to know a couple of things."

_Like if I hurt her, you'll kill me? And if I touch her, you'll maim me and then kill me?_

"Lucy is nineteen. You're twenty-four. That's not a lot of years' difference, but it's a lot of life difference. I don't want her rushing any to anything at nineteen." McClane held Matt's gaze, refusing to let him look away. "What's more, she's in school. Education is very important. I don't want my daughter dropping out of college and waiting tables or having to depend on some guy to support her. She's too smart for that.

"So here's the deal, kid. I'm not going to threaten you or give you ultimatums or do any of the stuff that Lucy would probably say wasn't my place to do. But I'm still her father. I still have dreams for her and hopes for her. And if you care about her, and you damn well better care about her if you're going to kiss her like you were just kissing her or I'll punch your face in, then you should remember that she's young, and she may not know exactly what she wants out of life yet, so don't get too serious too soon."

Despite the fact that he was still trembling from fear, Matt had to admit he was impressed and even touched by McClane's lecture. "I get it," Matt hurried to assure him. "I really do. I just, I don't, you know, I don't think anybody is talking like marriage here or anything. She's just really beautiful, and we seem to be weirdly compatible – "

McClane held up his hand. "Kid, I really don't want to know why you're attracted to my daughter. That's a subject we can leave unexplored."

"Right." Matt drew in a steadying breath; his hands were still shaking. "I'm just saying that I know we only met a couple of days ago, under pretty extreme circumstances, and I get that nothing good can come of rushing…things. So I won't."

"That's good. Now," McClane produced a leather briefcase from beside his chair which Matt, in his discomfiture at being caught red-handed kissing Lucy, had not noticed him carrying in, "here's what I really came in to talk to you about. Bowman sent this over for you."

Matt took the briefcase, placed it on the bed beside his good leg, and opened it. "Holy shit," he breathed, lifting out one of the newest, most powerful laptops on the market. "Holy shit, this thing is like – it's like a prototype, it's not even out yet! This is mine?"

McClane grinned, obviously pleased at Matt's reaction. "Bowman said you'd like it. He said to tell you to report to work whenever you feel up to it, but he thought this might get you back in the game faster."

"No shit this'll get me back in the game. Christ, if I'd had this thing I could've, I don't know, remote-control killed Gabriel or something." Matt was itching to test drive his new baby, but he didn't want to seem rude, so he forced himself to ignore the laptop and focus on McClane. "Are you going back to work soon?"

"Doctor's ordered me off for a month," McClane said sourly. "But I thought I might give you a ride over to the FBI office this week if you feel up to going. Never know what you might see over there."

"I'm surprised Bowman didn't offer you a job," Matt commented.

"He did. But I'm a dinosaur, kid, I'm not learning any new tricks. NYPD has always been good enough for me." McClane shook his head. "You know, when I knocked on your door, and there you were, this pale smart-ass kid, I sure didn't have you figured for a cop. Guess you showed me."

Matt nearly burst with pride. He supposed only some expensive therapy would help him sort out why compliments from John McClane acted on him better than drugs. Hey, with his new salary, at least he could afford the therapy.

"I'm not exactly a cop," Matt protested modestly. "More like an advisor to the cops. Who doesn't know how to shoot or drive or take out helicopters with cars."

"You're young. You got lots of time to learn." McClane stood up, stretched, wincing when he lifted his injured arm. "I'm going to bed, kid. Have fun with your new toy."

At the doorway, McClane paused and looked back. "You want me to send Lucy in to say good-night?"

Blushing, Matt nodded. "Yeah, uh, that'd be great."

"Okay. But just so we understand each other, while I'm in this house, the sleeping arrangements are you in this bed, and Lucy in her own bed. Got it?"

Matt suppressed a grin. So much for not being over-protective. "Absolutely, Officer."

"Good. Sweet dreams."


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few days, Matt gradually adjusted to life in the Gennero-McClane household. Holly and McClane seemed to have a delightfully contentious relationship: She insisted on taking care of him, and he insisted on being a troublesome patient. Lucy spent as much time as possible with Matt, which got a little more difficult as her summer classes at Rutgers resumed following the Independence Day holiday.

After a week of lounging around, even with his new computer to distract him, Matt was getting cabin-fever. McClane had already all but gone nuts. So when Matt's follow-up appointment with a local orthopedist revealed that his leg was healed enough for him to start his new job – provided it didn't involve running, jumping, kicking or other death-defying antics – Matt decided it was time to see what life "on the inside" was like.

Lucy took him shopping. Apparently, the grunge-hacker look Matt had going on didn't, in her opinion, fit the prototype of an FBI consultant. Being dressed by his girlfriend (he thought of her that way now, without worrying about it) was more fun than Matt suspected it should be, although he drew the line at buying a suit. "There's a reason they call bureaucrats 'suits,' Luce," he insisted, refusing to even try one on. "I may work for The Man, but I'm not dressing like The Man."

Finally, they settled on some expensive button-down shirts (Matt was persuaded when Lucy took a moment in the dressing room to demonstrate how much fun taking the shirts off could be) and some jeans without holes or patches. "You look totally hip," Lucy assured him. "You'll be the hottest FBI agent in New York."

"I'm not an agent," Matt protested, but without much force. He liked that Lucy thought of him as a hero. He just hoped his new job wouldn't involve acting like one; he'd had all of the heroics he wanted for one lifetime.

That evening, Holly prepared a special meal in celebration of Matt's new job. Growing up in foster care, Matt had rarely been celebrated; even birthdays had tended to go by with little more than the perfunctory cake and ice cream, and in his adulthood, that had gone by the wayside. The fact that a woman he had known for just over a week would take the time to fix barbecue spare ribs, baked potatoes, macaroni and apple pie – Matt's favorite meal, cunningly elicited from him by Lucy – made him feel like he was part of a real family for the first time in his life.

After supper, McClane and Matt, stuffed to bursting, sat on the back porch sipping ice-cold beer and listening to the strangely comforting sounds of Lucy and her mom doing dishes. "This is nice," Matt remarked.

In the gathering darkness, he couldn't quite make out McClane's features, but he thought the grim detective might actually have been smiling. "Yeah, Holly knows how to keep a comfortable home. She's pretty amazing."

Matt hesitated to ask the question which had plagued him ever since he first saw McClane with his ex-wife: Why would two people who still loved one another choose to live apart? Lucy's explanation didn't seem sufficient; Matt couldn't shake the suspicion that more had happened between McClane and Holly than their daughter knew.

Taking a deep breath, he decided to go for it. "This is probably none of my business – Well, I mean, it is none of my business, but I was wondering…"

"Why me and Holly split up?" McClane supplied. Matt nodded, relieved not to have actually posed the question. "It's complicated, kid. You love somebody, you marry somebody, you have kids, and one day, you wake up and realize the girl you fell in love with has become this incredible woman, and her life is taking her in a totally different direction from yours. Then you've got a choice to make: Do you stay with this woman and give up the life you want, maybe not even want but the only life you know how to live, or do you make her stay with you and give up what she wants, or do you call it quits and let each other go."

"Or you could, you know, compromise," Matt countered carefully, sensing he was on dangerous ground.

McClane drained the rest of his beer. "Compromise. That's what all the marriage counselors say. 'Just compromise, just see it from her perspective or his perspective.' That's bullshit, kid. People who tell you marriage is a compromise are the selfish fucking bastards who want everything on their own terms. Marriage is sacrifice. Being a parent is sacrifice. And sometimes, you have to be the one to make the sacrifice, because your family has done enough of it already."

A heavy silence descended upon them then. Staring across the darkened backyard, Matt kept thinking back to something Lucy had said on his first night in the Gennero house: _He always seemed too involved with other people to come see us. _In a way, Matt knew nothing could be further from the truth; McClane loved his family, including his ex-wife, with a kind of gritty tenacity Matt had never seen in another human being. Yet in a larger sense, McClane had chosen other people over his family, because he couldn't give up being a cop – the only way he knew how to live, as he had put it – in order to make his marriage work.

_Fantastic. I'm about to enter a profession that's pretty much guaranteed to wreck my future with Lucy. Congratulations on the new job, Matt…_

"Lucy tells me you lost your parents."

McClane's voice startled Matt out of what was fast becoming a self-pitying reverie. Finishing off his own beer, he lapsed into the nonchalant tone he always adopted when discussing his parents. "Yeah, a really long time ago. I don't remember them very well. You know, like some random memories of watching cartoons or something. "

"Mind if I ask how?"

Matt knew McClane could simply pull up the file through the NYPD database, so he decided brutal honesty was the best course. "They, uh, they were pretty big into the whole partying scene. My foster parents always told me they were killed in a car wreck. I looked them up when I got older, and it turns out they crossed the center line and took out an entire family coming home from this little girl's dance recital. My dad was driving and he was like six times over the legal limit for alcohol. It killed all of them, everybody, on impact."

_That criminal element just runs in the family._

"And you don't have any other relatives?"

"Uh, I think maybe a grandfather somewhere in a nursing home? I went into the system after my parents died. I was like four, I think."

"I've picked up a lot of kids with stories like yours," McClane mused. Although he couldn't see the other man's face, Matt could sense McClane studying him intently. "Not very many of them turn out like you, kid."

Matt laughed, embarrassed. He wasn't accustomed to compliments from McClane, no matter how much he obsessively craved them. "Social misfits with criminal records?"

"Decent people." McClane stood up. "I'll drive you over to the field office tomorrow. Make sure they don't give you any shit."

"I appreciate that." Matt truly did. He knew McClane was bored out of his mind and desperate for any excuse to leave the house, but he was also comforted by the promise of McClane's imposing presence his first day on the job. It would be like having his big brother accompany him to school on the first day: Nobody would be stupid enough to mess with him after that.

Lucy came out just as her dad went inside. "You guys bonding?" she teased, lowering herself onto Matt's lap.

"Something like that." Matt rested his hands lightly on Lucy's hips, loving how perfectly she fit against him. "Your dad's cool."

"He is. Sometimes." Lucy nuzzled Matt's neck with her nose and caught his earlobe between her teeth.

A shiver of desire shot down Matt's spine. Glancing toward the house, he asked nervously, "Can your dad see us from in there?"

"Is it okay if we stop talking about my dad for a minute?" Lucy was trailing kisses along Matt's jaw, making it next to impossible for him to concentrate on anything else – even the threat of McClane bounding out the back door with a loaded shotgun. "Because I would really, really like to just focus on you right now."

Turning his head in a vain attempt to capture her mouth for a real kiss, Matt murmured, "I think I can do that."

"Good." Covering his mouth with hers, Lucy slid her arms around Matt's neck, urging him closer. He kissed her deeply; he loved the feeling of drowning in her, the cool softness of her lips and the tangy warmth of her tongue. Almost before he knew it, her hands were under his shirt, and his fingers were tangled in her hair.

A wave of white-hot desire took Matt's breath. Lucy was an amazingly sexy girl; it wasn't as if he hadn't considered making love with her before. But something about her kiss, her whole demeanor, was different – hungry, insistent, undeniable. With supreme force of will he drug his lips from her mouth and, resting his forehead against hers, said breathlessly, "We've got to slow down here."

"Why?" Hands splayed across his chest, Lucy looked searchingly into Matt's eyes. "Because you don't want me?"

He couldn't help but laugh at such a ridiculous suggestion. "Yeah, right. I'm not even slightly attracted to you."

Lucy wasn't dissuaded. "Then why? Because you don't want to piss my dad off?"

_I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm either a saint or an idiot._

"No, it's not about your dad." Matt caught Lucy's wrists and gently pulled her hands out from under his shirt, determined to focus. "It's just, you know, we haven't been together very long and I don't want to rush…things."

"This doesn't feel rushed to me. It feels just right." Brushing her lips across his, Lucy whispered, "Doesn't it feel right to you?"

_Oh my God, just say yes, you idiot!_

"Yes," Matt heard himself saying, surrendering to her soft, teasing kisses. "Yes, it feels right…" He dipped his chin, pressing his mouth to the pulse above her throat. "But Luce, Lucy, we shouldn't – with your parents here – "

He heard Lucy smile. "You know what I really adore about you, Matt Farrell?"

"Mmm?" Matt was a little preoccupied with exploring every inch of her neck, his fingers curled in her hair.

"You are probably the most decent guy I've ever met."

That brought Matt up short. Wasn't that what McClane had just called him, decent? And here he was, ready to toss Lucy down on the lawn and rip her clothes off, after he had promised McClane that he wouldn't rush into anything with her.

"Is that a good thing?" Matt asked, as lightly as he could manage.

Lucy laid her head on his shoulder. "It's a wonderful thing. And you're right," she added. "My mom's house is not a very appropriate place for…that." She gently kissed his cheek. "I can wait, if you can."

_Or we could get in the car and drive to your dorm – Dammit, no, be a decent person…_

"I can wait." Matt was surprised at how true it was once he had said it. Despite the fact that his body was virtually screaming with desire, deep down, he knew Lucy was worth waiting for, and not even the most amazing physical encounter was worth jeopardizing what felt like the beginning of a long, happy relationship.

Against his neck, Lucy asked quietly, "You'll be careful tomorrow?"

Ah, so that was the issue: She was scared for him. Matt held her closer, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, and pressed his lips to her hair. "You don't have to worry about me. What I'm gonna do isn't like what your dad does."

"But you'll be careful?"

"I promise."

"Good." Lucy grinned playfully up at him. "'Cause you know, Matt, I kind of like you."

The next morning, McClane and Matt pulled up bright and early in front of a high-rise glass-and-concrete building in lower Manhattan which housed the headquarters of the New York FBI field office, including the cyberterrosim division. They had no more than parked alongside the curb, however, when the back door was jerked open and a large, bearded young man veritably dove inside.

"What the - ?" McClane, pistol drawn, whipped around. Matt was too stunned to move.

"Don't shoot!" The intruder, cowering as close to the floorboards as his considerable bulk would allow, raised his hands. "It's me, dude!"

Matt had already recognized the voice. Twisting around to confirm with his own two eyes, he gasped incredulously, "Warlock? What are you doing here?"

"Jesus H. Christ, man, that's what I'd like to know." With McClane's gun lowered, Warlock – a.k.a. Freddy – quickly adopted his usual disinterested sarcasm. "What _am _I doing here? Before the two of you broke into my house, I was living a pretty sweet life, minding my own, not hurting anybody. Now, thanks to you and Rambo here, I'm neck-deep in shit like you wouldn't even believe."

McClane raised his pistol warningly in Warlock's direction. "Freddy, either get to the point and tell me what the fuck you're doing jumping into the backseat of my car, or get the fuck out."

Warlock looked extremely put out by such treatment. "Dude, I am about drop a bomb on your life so big – "

"Freddy," McClane warned.

"All right, all right." Warlock sighed heavily, as if the weight of his news was almost more than he could bear. "Look it: After you guys took out Gabriel, I figured it was safe to, you know, explore a little bit. See what I could put together. Maybe," he glared pointedly at Matt, "get some kind of recognition for helping save the country, you know, like a swank job with the feds…"

McClane cleared his throat. Rolling his eyes, Warlock continued, "So anyway, I get to thinking about it, and here's what doesn't make sense: How did Gabriel hack the FBI cyberterrorism division to begin with? 'Cause none of those little start-up guys wrote any kind of code that could have remotely penetrated the FBI's firewalls."

A very large rock seemed to form in the pit of Matt's stomach. "Oh shit," he breathed.

"What?" McClane, impatient, looked from Warlock to Matt. "Kid, what is he talking about?"

"He's talking about somebody on the inside," Matt explained. He was so scared even his lips felt numb. "You can do a lot of things by remote, but the FBI servers, they aren't on the same network as everything else."

Nodding, McClane put in, "Like the utilities. You actually had to be there to shut them down."

"Sort of." Matt decided full explanations of computer programming could wait. "You could get into the FBI's computers from off-site, but only if you had their access codes – "

"And those are stored on secure servers you can't access from outside the building," Warlock finished, looking immensely pleased with himself.

But McClane was unimpressed. "Aren't you guys forgetting something? Gabriel was FBI. He could have downloaded those codes from this server thing anytime and saved 'em up for his big firesale."

Warlock was shaking his head. "Dude, you don't get it. I thought the same thing at first, but then I remembered that just over a year ago, the feds went to a totally revamped system." Seeing that McClane still didn't understand, Warlock burst out impatiently, "The codes Gabriel would have had access to are totally useless now, man! Even if he had taken them before he got canned, they wouldn't have done him any good, not with the new system."

As the realization of what Warlock was implying dawned on McClane, Matt saw his own horror reflected in the detective's eyes. "You're saying we missed somebody. Somebody who was helping Gabriel this whole time."

"Do you know who?" Matt asked Warlock. It would be just like the egotistical hacker, Matt thought sourly, to save "the best for last," having known the identity of the bad guy all along.

To his surprise (and dismay), Warlock shook his head. "Nah, man, I been trying to figure that out, but Gabriel didn't leave behind many digital footprints. I can't find any account traces or anything to show who he might have been paying off. The only thing I could find was this." He produced a crumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket and handed it over to McClane, who looked at it blankly. "That's a list of all the programmers Gabriel tricked into writing the codes that made his little firesale a go. Everybody on it has been deactivated except for two people: Matt Farrell," he pointed to the column with Matt's name in it, "and this dude, here at the bottom of the list, with no code by it."

Matt looked over McClane's shoulder at the paper. Sure enough, at the very bottom of the page was the name "Benedict Arnold" with the cryptic notation "2nd Lt" beside it instead of a description of the code written, as the other columns listed.

"Benedict Arnold," Matt mused, searching his memory. "Wasn't he the guy who defected to the British during the Revolutionary War?"

"Yeah. Benedict Arnold, the most infamous American traitor in history." McClane folded up the paper and tucked it in his jacket pocket. "Look, Freddy, I appreciate your help, but you're right in front of the federal building. Why didn't you just go in and tell them what you found?"

Warlock gaped at McClane. "Dude, are you nuts? How the fuck d'ya think I got this info, off Google?"

"He had to hack into secure files to find this out," Matt quickly explained to McClane, who was looking testy. "Warlock, we can go in there together. We'll work out, I don't know, some kind of immunity deal or something."

"Oh, and who are you now, man, Yoda? You just gonna walk in there and pull some little Jedi mind-trick and convince the FBI not to put me away for computer crimes?" Warlock shook his head dismissively. "Ain't no way. I've done my civic duty. Now you guys can deal with it."

Warlock started to get out of the car, but McClane placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Freddy," he said seriously, "these are not the kind of people you fuck around with. Now, if there's any way what you've been doing could be traced back to you, you need witness protection."

With a snort, Warlock pulled away from McClane. "Thanks but no thanks, dude. I know how to disappear a hell of a lot better than the government could do."

As the car door slammed behind Warlock, Matt tried to digest what they had just learned. Someone on the inside – someone who was, in all likelihood, still _inside _the inside – had helped Gabriel pull off the most important and most difficult part of his firesale: hack the FBI. Without that breach, the financial data would never have been transferred to Woodlawn, meaning Gabriel's entire plan would have been for nothing. And apparently, the FBI, probably assuming exactly what McClane had (that Gabriel could have downloaded the access codes himself before his termination), had no idea that a traitor was in their midst.

A traitor who could very well have access to all of the information Gabriel had stolen – to the secrets which could bring down the United States' defenses and economy, putting them right back where they were during the firesale.

"Holy shit." As the enormity of the situation hit Matt, he gripped the door handle for support. If he hadn't been sitting down already, he thought he might have collapsed. "Holy shit, McClane, what do we do?"

"We've got to talk to Bowman," McClane determined, getting out of the car. "C'mon, kid, let's move."

"Wait!" Matt jumped out of the car and jogged, wincing at the pain in his leg, to keep up with McClane. "McClane, think about it. We don't have any idea who this Benedict Arnold guy is. It could _be _Bowman."

"It's not." McClane opened the front door and proceeded to the receptionist counter, where he calmly told the pretty blonde receptionist, "Lieutenant John McClane, NYPD. I'm escorting Matthew Farrell to the cyberterrorism division. He's a consultant for them."

"Just a moment while I confirm, Officer." The receptionist turned away to speak into the telephone.

Matt's mind was whirling. "McClane," he whispered desperately, "how do you know it's not Bowman?"

"Because I just know, kid."

McClane smiled at the receptionist, who was waving them through security. He showed the security guard his badge and was allowed through with his pistol; Matt cleared the metal detector with no problems and hastily clipped his visitor's badge to the front of his new shirt.

"So what's the plan?" The elevator doors opened and the two of them got on alone. McClane pushed the button for the fifth floor. "We just walk in there and demand to speak to Bowman? Anyway, isn't he in D.C.?"

"Not this week. This week he's here in New York, following up leads on Gabriel." McClane noted Matt's confusion and smiled. "I spoke with him on the phone last night, kid, to let him know you'd be coming in today. He said he had some intel that Gabriel's financial base was here in New York, so he was going to be here for the week checking it out."

The elevators doors opened to an ultra-modern, bustling office filled with men and women unfailingly dressed in navy, black or gray business suits. Matt saw McClane cast a sidelong glance at his powder-blue button-down, faded jeans and well-worn sneakers. "What?" Matt demanded, following McClane down the hallway toward what seemed to be the room's command center, a large bank of computers surrounded by important-looking agents. "You don't think they'll take me seriously without a tie?"

"No, kid. I think they've probably been told to take you seriously." McClane paused to grin at him. "I just think it's funny how much these people are going to hate listening to a kid in sneakers."

Matt grinned back, although inside, he was nervous – nervous about doing a good job, about being in a room full of people who had been told he was some kind of expert, about discovering the identity of Gabriel's inside man before the world fell apart again. He was beyond relieved that McClane was with him. Otherwise, Matt thought he might have bolted for the door and never looked back.

Bowman was surrounded by eager-beaver types all determined, it seemed, to make a good impression on the high-ranking officer. McClane caught the deputy director's eye and waved. As quickly as he could, Bowman extricated himself from the press of agents and made his way over to them.

"Detective," he shook McClane's hand, then Matt's, smiling warmly. "Matt. Good to have you."

"It may not be so good once you hear what we've got to say," McClane cautioned, pitching his voice low enough so only Bowman could hear him. "You got someplace we can talk in private?"

Frowning with concern, Bowman nodded and directed them toward a large office off the main floor. He closed the door behind them and shut the blinds before perching on the edge of a large, cluttered mahogany desk.

"Okay, you've got my attention, McClane. What is it?"

McClane jerked his chin toward Matt. "You explain it, kid. You're the expert."

Trying to keep a tremor out of his voice, Matt relayed everything Warlock had told them in the car, as well as his own analysis of the situation. "I think somebody on your staff was probably planning to disappear once the firesale was over," he concluded. Bowman looked shell-shocked. "Gabriel probably paid whoever it is enough money so they'd never have to come out of hiding."

"This is unbelievable. I mean, I believe you," Bowman said quickly. "I just…don't believe it."

"You got any ideas who this guy could be?" McClane demanded.

Bowman stared hard at a spot on the floor, obviously wracking his brain. "Only certain members of my staff have access to those servers. You have to swipe your pass-card just to get in the server room, and the servers themselves require a nine-digit PIN to access. So we'd have a record of whoever went in there and who accessed what on the servers, but still, the breach could have happened anytime in the eleven months since we put in the new system."

"How big of a suspect pool are we talking?"

"Nine people, including me." Bowman reached for the telephone. "I'll call Washington and have them pull up the server room logs."

"Wait." Matt placed his hand over the phone. "If you do that, you could tip off whoever this is." He looked to McClane for support. "I mean, we don't know how many people are involved, right? Whoever you ask to start looking into it could be one of the bad guys."

"He's right," McClane agreed. "Can't you access that stuff from here?"

"I can." Matt whipped his new laptop out of his messenger bag and plunked it onto the desk. "Just gimme a sec…"

Within minutes, with the help of Bowman's passwords, Matt was into the FBI's records. He swiftly sorted through a veritable mountain of data, blocking out everything from his mind except the computer processes he needed to control.

_You can do this. You can do this. You have to be able to do this, now, when it counts._

"I'm in!" Hoping he hadn't sounded too surprised by his own abilities, Matt turned the screen so Bowman and McClane could look over his shoulder. "I'm pulling up the sever room logs now…Okay, wow that's a lot of…You guys must use this room a lot, huh?"

Bowman nodded. "On a fairly regular basis."

McClane spoke up, "My experience with bad guys is they like to work when they think nobody's watching. Kid, can you tell from that what time somebody went into that room?"

"Sure." Matt quickly sorted the log data into grids for morning, afternoon, evening and night. "Okay, it looks like most of the accesses took place in the morning and afternoon. I've only got about a dozen in the evening, and – hey, here we go, two at night."

Squinting at the screen, Bowman remarked, "One of those is me." He pointed to his name by an 11:45pm entry on January 10. "My wife was so pissed that I was at work that late."

"Looks like you were online for ten minutes. That's not enough time to get the codes Gabriel would have needed," Matt observed. Blushing, he added quickly, "I mean, not that I thought – "

"Everybody's a suspect, Matt. That's a good lesson to learn," Bowman interrupted, looking anything but offended. "The other access was…Oh my God, Molina."

McClane made a derisive noise. "Molina? You mean Wax Works, that bald asshole?"

Matt clearly remembered Molina – he had tried to dismiss McClane when they showed up in D.C. the first time. "Looks like he entered the server room at 1:26am on February 7, and he was online for…seventy-eight minutes."

Bowman pressed his hand over his eyes. "Jesus Christ. Molina? I've known him for fifteen years! He's my second-in-command, for fuck's sake."

"Is there some way to tell what he was doing while he was in that room?" McClane asked Matt, looking sympathetically at Bowman, who seemed to be taking Molina's betrayal rather hard.

_Find out who your friends are in this business, I guess. _Matt entered a few more operations and, with a sinking feeling, noted that although according to the logs Molina's time spent in the server room was completely innocent, the file had obviously been tampered with. He pointed this out to Bowman, who concurred after one glance.

"He didn't even really try to hide it," Bowman wondered aloud. "Gabriel must have promised him the moon for this."

"Bad guys never think they're going to get caught." McClane was, Matt could tell, ready for action now that the mystery was solved. "Whatta ya say we go burst this asshole's bubble?"

Bowman nodded, his hurt changing over to anger before their eyes. "Absolutely. He's on the floor. The son of a bitch was helping me put together the task force – probably thought he could steer us away from this line of inquiry, protect his own ass while he found a way to disappear without Gabriel's help."

Inexplicably, Matt experienced a keen sensation of foreboding as Bowman and McClane started for the office doorway. On a hunch (and hoping he was being paranoid), he quickly accessed the New York federal building's security log and saw, with mounting terror, that Frederick Molina had exited the building five minutes earlier – right about the time McClane had motioned Bowman over for their private conference.

"Uh, guys," Matt called, halting the two officers in the doorway, "I think we might have a problem. Molina left about five minutes ago. He exited by the front door."

"Anyplace he's supposed to be?" McClane inquired of Bowman, who shook his head grimly. "Son of a bitch must know we're on to him."

"Okay, we'll put out an APB on him, get his picture to the airports and the train stations," Bowman decided. He was suddenly all-business; Matt found himself developing a much greater respect for the deputy director than he had felt in D.C., when the man was so unwilling to consider the possibility of a worst-case scenario that turned out to be exactly what was happening. "He won't get far."

As Bowman sprinted off to enact his orders, McClane motioned for Matt to follow him. "Get your stuff, kid. We're going on a field trip."

Matt hastened to stow his laptop in his bag. "Where are we going?" he asked, gritting his teeth at how much it hurt to walk quickly enough not to be left in McClane's dust.

Stepping into the elevator, McClane explained, "Bowman's got this end covered, but here's what I'm thinking: Can you use that thing," he pointed to Matt's laptop, "to find out if our Benedict Arnold has any bank accounts in Manhattan?"

"Uh, it might take a few minutes, but now that I know his real name it shouldn't be a problem. Why?"

The elevator doors slid shut. "Think about it, kid. Bowman said Gabriel's finances were based out of New York City, and I'll tell you one thing about criminals, they don't tend to live very far from their cash, so I'm guessing whatever account he set up for Molina will be here in Manhattan, and I'm also guessing it's one fat chunk of change. Now if you were getting ready to run for your life, are you gonna leave behind all the money you've been paid to betray your country?"

"Right," Matt nodded, catching on. "So we find what bank he's got his money at, we go there and – "

Without warning, the elevator car began to shake violently from side to side, at the same time that a horrible roaring noise rushed down on them from above. Matt instinctively dropped to the floor of the car and covered his head; McClane did the same. Dust reined down on them. For one terrible moment, Matt knew the elevator cable was getting ready to snap, plunging them at break-neck speed toward the basement.

But as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking and the noise stopped. "Christ," Matt gulped, tentatively lifting his head to look around. The car appeared relatively undamaged, though they were no longer moving. "What the fuck was that?"

"Explosion." McClane was standing, staring grim-faced at the car's ceiling.

"Explosion?" An icy wave of terror broke over Matt, and he began to tremble from head to toe. "In the building?"

"Up there." McClane pointed above them. "I'm betting the fifth floor. What do you wanna bet, kid?"

Matt felt sick to his stomach. "Oh my God, he just took out the New York cyberterrorism division, didn't he? All those people we just saw – they're all dead, aren't they?" He put his hands on his knees and leaned over, trying to force blood back into his head, which was tingling as his vision started to fade out. "Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick, I really do."

"Just breathe, kid." McClane placed a steadying hand on Matt's shoulder and helped him stand upright. "Hang in there with me, okay? I got a feeling this day's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better."


	4. Chapter 4

Ten minutes later, emergency crews had McClane and Matt out of the elevator, and paramedics were checking out their cuts and scrapes (apparently encurred from falling debris in the elevator, though Matt had been too frightened to notice at the time) beside an ambulance in front of the federal building, which had become an absolute madhouse. Matt counted a dozen firetrucks, probably three dozen police cars, and an endless stream of ambulances that kept loading up patients and driving away with lights flashing and sirens blazing. The street in front of the building had been roped off, and people were milling around everywhere, most of them employees judging from their suits and skirts.

"It only hit the fifth floor," a police officer had confirmed McClane's theory the moment they had reached the lobby, which was a surprisingly well-ordered scene given that the entire building was being evacuated – ninety floors, and no elevator service. "We've got some injuries up there. I'll let you know how bad."

Now, as Matt surveyed the scene, trying to be as stoic as McClane while a paramedic dabbed a foul-smelling orange liquid onto a cut on his scalp that started in his hairline and looped over his right ear, he was shocked to see Bowman making his way toward them. The deputy director was covered in soot and dust and had pressed a blood-soaked towel to his forehead over a nasty gash, but he was very much alive.

"McClane." Matt pointed toward Bowman, and McClane turned to see.

"I'll be damned." McClane smiled grimly as Bowman joined them. "And they say I'm hard to kill."

Bowman bit his lip, looking distraught but in control. "Glad you two made it out. I can't believe that son of a bitch did this."

"How bad?" McClane gave voice to the question Matt, seeing the number of ambulances, was afraid to ask.

"It could have been worse," Bowman replied darkly. "The explosion seemed to come from the extreme back of the office, I'm thinking maybe from a supply closet or the restrooms by the emergency exit. The firewall absorbed most of the shock thanks to that. So far, we've only got two people missing, and they may have been running errands – we're checking on that right now. No other fatalities. Some bad burns and lots of broken bones and bad cuts, but I'm hoping we haven't lost anybody and aren't going to."

Sagging with relief, Matt listened as McClane filled Bowman in on their theory of where Molina might have been. While McClane talked, Matt (who had finally been given a clean bill of health by the paramedics) flipped open his laptop and began the not-so-legal procedure of hacking bank records until he came upon one in Manhattan belonging to a Frederick Molina. Seeing that the social security number matched the FBI's records, he announced, "I've got it. The account was opened on January 26 in Molina's name." He glanced up at his audience, adding, "That's like a week before he accessed the server room in the middle of the night."

"Bastard didn't waste any time, did he?" Bowman observed bitterly. "How much is in the account, and where is it?"

"Two hundred million dollars," Matt answered. McClane whistled. "Chase Manhattan Bank, about six blocks from here."

Something on the screen suddenly caught Matt's eye. "Wait." He held up a hand to prevent McClane and Bowman from dashing off to gather the cavalry. "I don't know if this means anything to you guys, but it says here that the account was opened by Owen Milsner. Is that one of Gabriel's aliases or something?"

Bowman placed a hand over his eyes. "Goddamn it. I should have suspected Milsner's involvement."

"Who's this asshole?" McClane asked, watching as Matt typed furiously, searching through public records for Owen Milsner. It didn't take long for hits to pop up: Apparently, Owen Milsner was a ridiculously wealthy Texas oil tycoon's son with suspicious ties to Middle Eastern terrorist organizations. He had an FBI profile that went on for six pages, and an NSA file Matt wasn't brave enough to hack.

"I was afraid of this when we got the intel that Gabriel's financier was in Manhattan," Bowman explained. "I doubt Milsner gave a damn about Gabriel's supposedly patriotic intentions. He'll want the information Gabriel had about how to bring our systems down, and he'll sell them to the highest bidder among his terrorist contacts. Fuck, the guy'll probably be ten billion dollars richer by this time tomorrow!"

Matt caught McClane's eye, and he suspected they were both thinking the same thing: _It's always about the money._

"Bowman, look, nothing's changed," McClane insisted. "We get in the car, we head Molina off at the bank, and – "

"Whoops." Matt's heart dropped into the region of his shoes. "Too late. Molina just emptied his account – secure wire transfer to a bank in the Cayman Islands."

Bowman stomped his foot and cursed loudly. "We'll never make it to the bank before he's gone. He's a ghost."

"I'm not so sure." Matt couldn't believe he was contradicting his new boss on the first day, but hey, that was what had gotten him the job in the first place, so he decided to put national security above a promotion. "Think about it. Milsner's here in Manhattan, you say, and he wants whatever info Gabriel had, and Molina can get him access to that with your server codes. It's probably a long shot, but maybe if we can find Milsner, we can find Molina before he hands over the codes."

McClane was already waving over a cop car to commandeer. "I like it," he declared. "Bowman, you stay here and get your people in order, try to figure out if you've got any other moles on the inside besides Molina. The kid and I'll see if we can hunt down Milsner."

"Okay," Bowman reluctantly agreed, looking very much like he wanted to accompany them, though of course the chaotic scene around them precluded him from leaving for what could well be a wild goose chase. "But if you even get a whiff of Molina, I want you to call me and I'll send back-up. Got it?"

McClane slid behind the wheel of the squad car; Matt jumped in the passenger's side, laptop out and fingers flying over the keyboard. "You got it," McClane promised Bowman.

As they wound their way through the parked firetrucks and ambulances, McClane turned to Matt. "You believe any of what you said back there, kid, or were you just trying to look impressive?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to think like one of the bad guys, you know, like if I had the FBI's server codes and was about to be branded a traitor anyway, what would I do: leave the country with two hundred million dollars or try for the jackpot?"

"Bad guys go for the money every time," McClane agreed. "So where we going?"

"Milsner has a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and an office building connected to his father's oil company just off Wall Street," Matt relayed, reading off the screen. "Think he's a guy who brings his work home?"

McClane was already turning toward Wall Street. "These guys don't like it messy where they live."

"Okay, so let's go see if Molina has an appointment with Mr. Milsner this afternoon." Matt was proud of himself for sounding eager instead of petrified, which was how he felt. Still, he couldn't stop himself from adding, "But McClane, you know, what Bowman said about calling for back-up – you remember that I'm not actually a cop, right? So if people start shooting, I'm not going to be any real help."

McClane smirked at Matt over the dashboard. "Like I said, kid, you're young – you got lots of time to learn. So buckle up."

Matt would have preferred sneaking into Milsner's office building by the back door (okay, he would have preferred waiting in the car while McClane and a SWAT team stormed the building), but McClane simply sauntered through the front door of the swanky office building, marched right up to the security desk, and asked which floor Owen Milsner's office was on.

"Ninety-fourth," the guard replied. "Are you expected?"

"Yeah," McClane responded smoothly. "I'm Frederick Molina."

The guard checked a computer screen at his elbow. "Okay, Mr. Molina, looks like you're cleared to go up. Uh," he glanced at Matt, "this is…?"

"My assistant." McClane remained perfectly calm; Matt felt faint from terror, and they hadn't even made it out of the lobby yet. "Is that a problem?"

Apparently, the guard knew his business well enough to be hesitant about trifling with one of Milsner VIP appointments. "No, no problem," he said, after a moment's reflection. "Elevator's right through there."

"Oh Christ, another elevator?" Matt muttered as they moved past the security desk.

"Relax, kid. They're not gonna blow this building up. They're in it." McClane stepped into the elevator and pushed the 'door close' button as soon as Matt followed him in. Instead of 94, however, he pushed the button for 93. To Matt's puzzled expression, he said, "Probably not a good idea to see what kind of welcoming party Milsner's got in his lobby, d'ya think? We'll take the stairs and have a look around."

"Right." Matt was relieved that McClane was there to think of these things. He would have tripped off the elevator without ever expecting an ambush had he been by himself.

On the short ride, McClane removed the pistol from his shoulder-holster and loaded it. He put a few extra clips in his jacket pocket. "Just in case," he assured Matt, who was shaking again despite his best efforts not to.

_So much for promising Lucy I'd be careful. I hope I live to regret this…_

At the ninety-third floor, McClane and Matt exited into what appeared to be the headquarters for a national financial magazine. Without a sideways glance, McClane led the way to the staircase, which was empty (not surprisingly, in a building with over one hundred floors). Matt hobbled behind as best he could up the single flight of stairs leading to Milsner's office suite, grateful as pain throbbed in his injured calf that McClane hadn't suggested getting off a few floors below.

McClane silently eased the stairway door open and peered around. Turning back to Matt, he announced, "Okay, looks like we've got a pretty normal-looking reception area. But with the shit Milsner's into, I'll bet you my pension plan he's got armed guards up here."

"So what do we do?"

"Well, I figure right about now Milsner's getting the message that Molina's here to see him, so when Molina doesn't actually show up, they're gonna start to get nervous. Then we'll see what happens."

"So we're hanging out here for a minute," Matt clarified. Sitting down on the stairs, mostly to relieve the pain in his leg but also so he could take out his laptop, Matt began working on isolating the building's computer network while McClane cautiously checked the lobby every couple of minutes. The computer security was surprisingly sophisticated; Matt assumed a lot of financial information flowed in and out of the offices, and if Milsner was any indication, probably criminal activities people didn't want easily exposed as well. It took some doing, but in just a few minutes, he had pulled up the security cameras' CC feed.

He jumped when almost instantly he spotted a familiar face in the lobby. "Molina's here," he whispered to McClane. "He just walked in."

"Must've got caught in traffic." McClane peered out the door again. "There we go," he muttered, letting the door fall shut softly. "Two big guys with guns just headed for the elevator. They must be looking for Molina."

"Really? They're just carrying guns around an office building?" Matt was startled by the chutzpah.

McClane shot him a withering look. "No, kid, I can see the bulges of shoulder holsters under their shirt jackets. Criminals like Milsner have a little subtlety, you know – it's how they keep from getting caught."

Matt smiled sheepishly. He quickly redeemed himself, however, by noting that Molina was not getting past the security guard: "McClane, we may have a problem here. The guard isn't letting Molina up because he just let _us _up thinking you were him."

"Yup, and right about now, Milsner's henchmen oughtta be hitting the lobby." McClane pulled out his pistol and double-checked that it was loaded. "You got your cell phone, kid? Now'd be the time to call for back-up."

Back-up, of course! Matt couldn't believe he had forgotten; somehow, it seemed unusual to think of McClane needing any help. "Right," he mumbled, fumbling the cell phone out of his bag. "Okay, here we go…Dialing…"

_Please pick up please pick up please pick up PLEASE PICK UP –_

"Bowman."

Heaving a sigh of relief, Matt whispered into the receiver, "Bowman, this is Matt. Uh, Farrell, Matt Farrell."

"Go ahead, Matt," Bowman said, while beside Matt, McClane rolled his eyes and motioned for him to hurry up.

"Yeah, we're at Milsner's office building and Molina just showed up. McClane says we need back-up."

"You got it." Bowman sounded delighted. "You guys safe?"

"Tell him where we are," mouthed McClane.

Matt quickly relayed that they were in the stairwell outside the ninety-fourth floor and, for the moment, not in any immediate jeapordy. Bowman promised back-up would be there within five minutes, both NYPD and FBI. "I'm also calling the building's security and having them lock the place down," he informed Matt. "Stay out of sight. We've got 'em cornered."

Daring to hope that perhaps more gun battles were not in his immediate future, Matt told McClane what Bowman had promised, and McClane nodded in agreement. "Looks like they've figured out they might have company," he observed, pointing at the screen, which showed the armed guards escorting Molina to the elevators while one of them spoke into a walkie-talkie. On the other side of the door, Matt noted the sounds of an office staff suddenly on the move.

"Are they going to try to escape?" he asked quietly.

"Probably. But see, the building's being locked down." McClane pointed out the security guards swarming the exits. "Unless he's willing to shoot his way out of here, Milsner's stuck. And so is Molina."

_Rats caught in their own trap. _Matt felt enormously pleased by their success. Maybe being a cop wasn't so difficult after all –

From the other side of the door, Molina's voice, high-pitched and panicked, abruptly cut through the noise of panicked employees scrambling for the elevator: "It's McClane and Farrell, I'm telling you, they knew something when they came into the federal building this morning, I told you – "

"Yes, I heard you the first time, Mr. Molina." The responding voice was cold and calculated, different from Gabriel's in its tone and texture (Matt detected a distinctive Texas drawl) yet terrifying in much the same way because it was so emotionless. "I have to say, I'm a little disappointed in you for leading the authorities directly to me."

Molina's voice was practically shrill with fear. "Listen, this wasn't supposed to happen! I was supposed to give Gabriel the codes, stay around on my end to be sure he got his money, and then I was supposed to disappear. His plan goes all to hell, thanks to some NYPD has-been and a kid who doesn't even look old enough to shave, and now all of a sudden, I'm standing around with my dick in my hands waiting for you people to get me out of this. So excuse me for panicking, but I'm telling you, if I hadn't gotten out of that building when I did, me and your codes would be in federal custody right now."

"Calm down." The slickness in the voice, which Matt presumed belonged to Owen Milsner, made Matt's skin crawl. "Paul, how much time do we have before the authorities arrive?"

A male voice replied, "According to the police channel, about three minutes."

"And will our ride be ready then?"

"We can take off in two minutes."

"Shit," McClane hissed, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. "They've got a helicopter. Bad guys always have a goddamn helicopter nowadays. Kid, you gotta call Bowman, tell him to get some guys on the roof – "

Before Matt could react to that order, however, they were presented with an even more pressing problem. Milsner inquired of Molina, "Do you have the codes with you?"

"The codes," Molina answered shakily, "are inside an encrypted digital file I created. It's a fake website. I can access them from here, but we really should get going."

"Codes first, Mr. Molina," Milsner tabled, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm not risking you backing out of our deal when your friends show up."

McClane looked desperately to Matt. "Can you stop him from getting into that file?"

"Already working on it." Matt tossed McClane his phone. "Here, call Bowman about the helicopter. I'm gonna try to get their IP address…okay, okay, good…and…if I can…"

As he always did when he was working on a challenging project, Matt blocked out everything around him: McClane whispering frantically into the phone, bad guys with loaded weapons on the other side of the stairwell door, one of the worst traitor's in the nation's history standing less than ten feet from him. He shut his mind off to the possibility that Milsner's men might check the stairwell, in which case he and McClane had nowhere to hide, and to the impending battle once the police did arrive. He focused entirely on getting control of Molina's file before Milsner did.

_Because if I don't, this asshole is going to sell our country to the highest bidder – They could get everything with those codes, every piece of data the FBI's cyberterrorism division has backed up or locked up, which is, well, everything they would need to make Gabriel's firesale look like kid's stuff…_

"Got it!" Matt whispered triumphantly. McClane, snapping the cell phone shut, crouched beside him on the stairs, gun leveled at the stairway door. "Okay, he's opening up the file – man, this is like a stupidly simple little plan, to put the codes into an encrypted file on a bogus website, it's a hell of a lot smarter than carrying around some disk that could get lost or – "

"When you're done being impressed by this asshole, you gonna tell me whether or not we can stop him?" McClane snarled.

Matt found himself incapable of being irritated by McClane at this point; he was too intently focused on his fingers flying across the keyboard. "It's relatively simple," he said, speaking without really thinking about his words. "I just…type this…and do that…and hit this sequence…and…okay, it's locked."

He sat back from the computer, heart pounding in his ears. "What do you mean, 'it's locked'?" McClane demanded impatiently. "What's locked?"

But Matt just put his finger to his lips for McClane to be quiet and listen. Almost instantly, a panicked, confused cry sounded from the other side of the door. "It's locked! The file, somebody's locked it!"

"Are you saying there's a problem?" Milsner asked silkily, his voice so threatening Matt shuddered. He had a terrible feeling they were about to hear Molina be murdered, and while Molina probably deserved it, Matt couldn't quite stomach the thought of hearing someone's death.

"It's got to be Farrell," Molina insisted, obviously pleading for his life. "He's encrypted the file with his own code. It could take, I don't know, days or years for me to figure out how to open it. Wait! Wait, he's got to be here somewhere, he's got to be in the building, I'm telling you!"

McClane was suddenly on his feet and pulling Matt up with him. "Time to move, kid," he declared, pushing Matt ahead of him down the stairs.

Trying not to trip as he shoved his laptop and cell phone back into his bag, Matt moved as fast as his injured leg would allow, McClane on his heels. They hit the entrance to the ninety-third floor just as the stairway door above them opened. "There they are!" Matt heard someone shout, and bullets echoed off the stairs as the door slammed shut behind them.

"Keep moving!" McClane pushed Matt through the startled people standing around the lobby of the ninety-third floor, all of whom began screaming when they saw McClane's weapon. "Get in there, get inside," McClane ordered, opening the door to an empty conference room and locking it behind them.

Matt's heart was beating so fast he could hardly catch his breath. His injured leg seemed caught in a perpetual cramp; he recalled the doctor saying something about muscle tears if he tried to walk too far too soon. He decided to worry about it later. Ignoring the pain and fear as best he could, he asked, "What do we do now?"

"Give me your phone." McClane crouched with him on the other side of a long mahogany desk, putting as many barriers between them and the door as he could. Outside, they heard more screaming, which Matt took to mean that Milsner's armed henchmen had just burst through the stairway door.

McClane punched in some numbers on the cell phone and spoke in a very official-sounding voice. "This is Lieutenant John McClane, NYPD," he told whoever was on the other end of the line, then rattled off his badge number. "I have a police emergency at the Walton Building…Yes, I know you have officers here already." Below, sirens were racing up to the building. "I am trapped on the ninety-third floor in the east wing inside a conference room. I have at least three armed men in pursuit. I'm accompanied by a civilian…Yes…Thank you."

Handing the phone back to Matt, McClane assured him, "They're coming."

"Are they gonna get here before the bad guys?" Matt had barely finished his sentence when the door suddenly splintered from gunfire. Instinctively, he ducked; McClane threw his body over Matt's, shielding him from the flying wood and bullets.

"Stay down, kid!" The instant the barrage stopped, McClane whipped around and fired several rounds directly at the door. Above the shrieks of terrified office workers, Matt heard a distinctive grunt and a thud that told him one bad guy was down.

He had no time to celebrate, though, before more bullets peppered the room. McClane shoved him backwards toward the wall, pulling the conference table over as he did so to give them more protection from the bullets. Matt was too scared to move or speak; the table was thick, but not thick enough to repel many bullets for very long. If the cavalry didn't come…

_They didn't come last time and McClane did okay. Have some faith._

Slightly reassured, he raised his head just enough while McClane returned fire to peer out the window. Dozens of cops were flooding into the building. Even more reassured, Matt flattened himself against the wall as tightly as possible, closed his eyes, and willed the NYPD to move quickly.

"I think they've gone." McClane's pronouncement startled Matt, whose ears were ringing so badly from the gunfire he hadn't even realized the shooting had stopped. Reloading, McClane gave him a quick once-over. "You hurt?"

"I-I don't think so. You?"

McClane shook his head. "Not even a scratch." He winced as he rolled his injured shoulder, testing its movement. "Your leg okay?"

The cramp had eased up slightly now that the muscle wasn't being used. Stretching his legs out in front of him, back to the wall, Matt admitted, "It kinda hurts, but I think it's okay. I probably just shouldn't run away from anymore armed criminals today."

"We'll work on that," McClane grinned. He settled back onto the floor by Matt, keeping a wary eye on the door, his gun still in his hand. "So what you did back there, with the computer, does that mean Molina can't get this info to Milsner, ever?"

"Well, maybe not 'ever,' but it'll take him a long while to crack the encryption code I put on it. Hopefully long enough to get the access codes changed. That should only take a day or two, if Bowman puts everybody on it, and I'm sure he will."

"And then that information is useless anyway, right?"

"You're learning, Detective." Matt and McClane shared a smile.

"Officer McClane? John McClane?" a voice called from the now-silent lobby. "NYPD, is Officer McClane up here?"

"In here," McClane called. Two uniformed police officers appeared in the doorway, guns drawn; McClane quickly produced his badge, at which point they lowered their guns. "Is the building clear?"

One of the officers shook his head. "We're going floor-by-floor, dispatch says. I guess some helicopter got taken off from the roof, and they think most of the suspects were onboard, but we're still gonna check."

"Dammit." McClane turned away, scowling.

Matt placed a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, McClane. I mean, we stopped them from getting the file open, and that's like the main concern, right?" McClane nodded grudgingly. Feeling more elated by the minute, Matt went on, "They'll get caught up to eventually. Molina's probably already got a new hole in his forehead, if Milsner's anything like Gabriel, but even somebody like Milsner can't hide forever."

"Yeah." McClane didn't sound convinced, but he offered Matt a supporting arm to help him hobble through the rubble on his good leg. "You know, kid, I think my daughter's gonna be a little upset with me when she finds out I took you into another gun battle."

Picturing his reunion with Lucy, Matt felt dreamy and light-headed – or, possibly, he was high on an adrenaline rush. "I'll explain it to her, McClane. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

McClane sighed. "Story of my life, kid."


End file.
